New York (1st pass)

To get from New Jersey to Connecticut, we had to pass through New York state and cross the Hudson River. Not all bridges across the Hudson allow bikes, so we had essentially two choices: cross in the New York City area (the shortcut), or go all the way up to the Bear Mountain Bridge (the scenic route). Since we would already be spending a week in New York City at the conclusion of the first leg of our journey, we chose the scenic route.

Our first night into New York took us through the village of Tuxedo, where we made a stop at the public library. Here we met the pony-tailed driver of a car that we’d seen several times during the day’s ride (a red VW convertible with a U.S. flag flying from the bumper). His name was Brian Cullen, and after a bit of chatting he invited us to come stay at his homemade geodesic dome home that evening. “You gotta come see the dome, man! I built it for you,” he cajoled in a breathy, the-sixites-never-died voice.

Upon arriving at his house, he gave us cold drinks then commenced a thorough tour of the place. The wall of the lower level was a huge circle built of cordwood. The gaps had been filled with bottles, plaster, oddly-proportioned windows, and random objects (a hammer, a stone declaring “New Program Guarantees Life Till End”). Set atop this wall was the geodesic dome, which enclosed the second floor and sleeping lofts. Triangular windows comprised the south face of the dome, with a massive expanse of sailcloth draped on top to prevent overheating in the summer months. Inside, the ambiance was rustic and distinctly homemade. Everything in sight had been built by Brian’s two hands: the stairs, the stone fireplace, the kitchen cabinets, bookcases. In several places, walls were painted white and then used as giant notepads to post interesting pictures, to write philosophical musings (“The only difference between a rut and a grave is depth”), or record lists of favorite books, movies, etc.

Years ago I got on a kick of looking at pictures of “art cars” on the internet—vehicles that the owner had chosen to ultra-customize in the wildest ways. There were cars plastered with bottle caps or cameras, cars covered with live grass, cars converted into giant drivable chickens. I never quite understood why those cars had intrigued me, but here in Tuxedo, New York, I finally got it. The thing about those cars that had fascinated me was the same thing about Brian’s house that I found so interesting: this home had not only been created by Brian, but it had also been created for Brian. Neither resale value nor others’ opinions were considerations its creation—only the needs, whims, and artistic expressions of one person: its owner. The freedom found in owning your possessions instead of them owning you and the courage to create rather than merely consume are traits that I admire.

Throughout the course of the evening’s hours of conversation, we learned that Brian was an eccentric not only in his home, but in his career as well. During his decades as a high school science teacher, he had been censured numerous times by administrators for his hands-on, inquisitive teaching style. Examples include taking students up in a private plane and diving towards the ground to do experiments in microgravity (a la the “Vomit Comet”), and bringing a roadkill possum to teach about the respiratory system by inflating its lungs via a straw. Brian had also written several books about his battles with local administrators and fought his case as high as the Supreme Court. He was a unique and uncompromising man, to be sure.

The next morning, Brian fixed us “Eggs Dome” before we set off on a beautiful ride through Harriman State Park. The stretch on Seven Lakes Drive was one of the most perfect of our trip so far: almost no traffic, gentle grades, spectacular scenery, and mild weather. After crossing the Bear Mountain Bridge, we headed east through Peekskill and ended the day in Katonah. Here we were hosted on incredibly short notice by Warm Showers List member Alan Cole. The town of Katonah is the hometown of two notable celebrities: the beloved Billy Collins (a former Poet Laureate who gives regular readings at the town’s tiny library), and the not-so-beloved Martha Steward (style maven and ex-con, who tried to usurp the town’s name by trademarking it for a line of furniture). We didn’t meet either of the town’s (in)famous residents, but Alan Cole was a world-class host and we didn’t miss them at all.

Connecticut

While riding through New Jersey and New York, the people we met (save for those fellow cyclists who kindly hosted us) had been noticeably less warm. We worried that this coolness would carry on throughout the Northeast, but as we crossed into Connecticut, an abrupt change occurred. People were friendly again! Every time we stopped—at convenience stores, stop lights, or diners—a friendly banter with passers-by would ensue.

We pedaled past palatial estates on the rolling, forest-lined back-roads of inland western Connecticut, then down to the bustling, plebian coast. We were surprised at this reversal of stereotypes: instead of backwoods hillbillies and waterfront mansion-owners, the wealthy of Connecticut have retreated to the hills, abandoning the coastline to strip malls and industrial parks while the formerly grand port cities slowly decayed.

We spent our first evening in Connecticut in New Haven with some welcoming seminary students in a student ghetto near the Yale campus. I was here again surprised by Connecticut. Universities typically seem to impart an elegant and cosmopolitan aura to the town that hosts it; yet instead of the picture-perfect boulevards and tidy university shops we’d seen in Princeton, New Haven seemed to be, well, a slum. Despite the prolific good intentions of the early Connecticut nomenclators (surrounding New Haven are North Haven, East Haven, West Haven, and Fair Haven), the area did not feel like a haven of any sort. We had expected the college quads to be filled with barefoot coeds tossing a Frisbee surrounded by budding intellectuals reading under trees. Instead, the greens were traversed by homeless people pushing their rickety shopping carts. Yet after our initial shock, we came to see this as, oddly enough, a good thing. Yale was not an ivy-clad fortress where the elite came to escape the messy reality of the proletariat; it was a world-class institution set in a complex, problem-filled city where the classroom is not isolated from, but rather surrounded by, the difficult realities of the inner city.

The following day, we pedaled back inland and spent an afternoon wandering around quaint Middletown, with its thriving Main Street, its grand public library, and one of the most friendly and helpful bike shops we’ve come across yet: Pedal Power. Despite its name, Middletown did not contain the geographic center of Connecticut: our GPS pointed us eight miles to the northwest, to a town called Berlin (accent the first syllable: rhymes with “Merlin” the magician).

Here in Berlin we had an encounter that perfectly demonstrates a process we often experience while bike touring: a stranger slowly becoming a new friend as his initial misgivings melt away through time and conversation.

Our search unfolded like it had numerous times before: GPS in hand, we narrowed our hunt down to one house, then paused to summon the resolve to overcome our apprehensions about the awkward interaction to come. Fortunately, a man standing in the driveway of the anointed house saw us ride up (it seems to ease the initial interaction when someone sees us pedal up on the bike). We smiled, dismounted the bike, and Laura broke the ice, “Hey, are you the one in charge around here?”

“No, it’s my son’s house—he’s the one that just pulled out.”

“Aww, that’s too bad, but maybe you can still help us,” Laura replied. We made introductions (his name was Chris Ayala), then explained our quest and the significance of this property. Chris slowly nodded, then proceeded to pepper us with questions that felt a bit more like suspicious fact-checking than curious interest. As he listened to us speak with ease and familiarity about our journey, he palpably softened and began to open up about himself. A former employee of the local electric company, he had taken up photography in his retirement and was now a paid videographer for local high school athletics.

“Well let me go get my camera, and we’ll head out back and see where the center is,” he said. Reemerging with a professional-looking SLR, he walked us around back where we were met by his other son Christian. Wearing a black shirt with sleeves cut off and adorned with a goatee, large tattoos and “plugs” (ear-stretching cylinders in his earlobes), Christian would at first glance strike most as rough character. Instead, he was immensely congenial and well-spoken—we liked him immediately. Amid our hunt for the center, we learned that Christian was studying art education in college, planning to be a teacher someday. Laura and he bonded in their chosen profession, while Aaron tramped off into the over grown right-of-way beneath towering power lines behind their back yard. The center lay just beyond their property at the foot of a giant wooden power pole, and we all gathered for a picture in their backyard with these power lines as a backdrop.

We continued chatting as we made our way back to the front of the house. Our conversation had by this point become markedly warm and amiable, despite the rocky start. Chris even sheepishly confessed, “You know, this really is my house. I just said it was my son’s because I didn’t know what you were up to. You just don’t know with people these days.” Yet the nature of our quest had forced us to interact for long enough that we broke through this cynicism and befriended yet another stranger.

“Well, is there anything we can do to help you guys?” Chris asked. Christian added enthusiastically, “Yeah, anything at all—we’d love to.”

“Actually, there is one thing…” I replied. “Do you think we might be able to pitch our tent in your yard tonight? It’s getting late and we don’t really have a place lined up.” I had felt confident that our report by this point was sufficient to make this vulnerable request, yet the silence that followed made me question this judgment.

“Your call, pops,” Christian finally said.

“I’ll go talk with your mom,” Chris declared and headed inside. Soon thereafter, Patty emerged and became the third Ayala to make our acquaintance. We learned that Patty was a cancer survivor and worked long shifts at a local grocery store, yet her demeanor was friendly and upbeat. After a few minutes of chatting, she welcomed us to pitch our tent and even join them for the dinner she was preparing.

Hours of chatting, a pile of pasta meatballs, and a bottle of wine later, we felt as though we were dining with family. By the time we made our way to the tent for the night, Chris had provided us with hot showers and was persistently asking if we were sure that we wouldn’t be more comfortable sleeping inside. We insisted that we were perfectly happy with our tent, and when we awoke the next morning, Chris had a box of donuts and hot coffee waiting for us. Over breakfast, Christian presented us with a pair of bracelets that he had hand-made for us late last night, intended to bring us good fortune on our travels.

By the time we had loaded the bike, we were finding it difficult to get away—both because of the bond we had built with the Ayalas, as well as Chris’s continual attempts to find one more way to help us. We were once again amazed at the transformation we had experienced in less than twenty-four hours. Having begun trepidatiously on the edge of this same driveway with Chris concealing his identity as owner of the house, we now were embracing our kind hosts, finding it difficult to leave.

Maryland

The journey from D.C. to the center of Maryland took us through some of the most heavily populated areas we’d seen to date, and we simply couldn’t manage to find any good roads for cycling. Coupled with the worst day ever for flats (four, all caused by one hard-to-locate sliver of glass), we were much relieved to finally escape the megalopolis to discover that the center of Maryland was inside a national wildlife refuge.

The Patuxent Wildlife Refuge is huge by east-coast standards: 12,300 acres. After stopping to chat and get maps at the visitors station, it took several hours of riding on gravel roads, walking across grassy fields, around swamps, and through forest to reach our destination. Laura was none too enthused about walking in “snaky” areas like tall grass and bogs, but she bravely pushed on (and allowed me to piggy-back her once) until at last we located the heart of Maryland along the banks of the braided and muddy Patuxent River.

After our expedition into Patuxent, we headed east and made it across Chesapeake Bay via 4.9 mile long Chesapeake Bay Bridge. The crossing was a true fiasco and the magnum opus of the Maryland DOT’s bike-unfriendliness. We were pulled over and chastised by a belligerent cop for riding on the only road (on the shoulder!) that took us to the toll gate where the DOT website told us we could summon a shuttle vehicle to take us across the bridge. The toll for a 4 ton SUV to cross the bridge: $2.50. The toll for a bicycle: $35! And when the “shuttle” arrived (45 minutes later), it was a Chevy Tahoe bearing a sign for “Such-and-So’s Auto Repair” without a bike rack. The driver (Such-and-So himself, apparently) said that he couldn’t fit our bike and would have to go across the bridge to get a trailer then come back for us (an hour plus round trip). We insisted he attempt to fit our bike, and by folding down a seat, we succeeded. Upon reaching Maryland’s eastern shore, we disembarked from our “shuttle”, begrudgingly paid our fee, and pedaled off. Thankfully, that night we ran into Paul and Amy Lippencott, who welcomed us into their home and regaled us with stories of sailing adventures from the high seas. Their hospitality helped to redeem our picture of Maryland from the traffic, the flats, and the DOT.

Delaware

Our experience of Delaware was like a habeñero pepper: small and hot. Now if someone with a bicyclist’s perspective calls a place small, you know that it’s really small. For instance, while many states have a week-long “Ride Across Nebraska” tour, in Delaware they have the Double-Cross. Which is to say, there is a ride that goes across Delaware and back twice in one day! And it’s only 62 miles! For us, this smallness meant a chance to slow down, which was opportune, since the area was experiencing devastating heat and drought.

But the weather in Delaware had wilted not only the resolve of cyclists, but also had decimated the area’s corn crops. As a result of the heat and drought, all across the state we saw thousands upon thousands of acres of brown, dead corn. Laura and I were surprised at the rural and agricultural feel of Delaware; we’d expected the entire mid-Atlantic to be urban and developed. Instead, the area reminded us strongly of western Missouri (except for the fact that the corn here was dry and scorched, while western Missouri’s corn had been under six feet of flood water when we visited in July.)

We took several rest days in Dover during the worst of the weather (heat index of 106) with Bob & Joan Brown, the parents of our friends, mentors, and marriage counselors from home, David & Jill Brown. Their ease in hospitality was perfect: they truly made you feel at home and not like an intruder in someone else’s house. From Dover, we made our way south to the center, which was near the town of Felton. This time, our GPS led us to the home of Wayne & Loretta Wooten on Carpenter Bridge Road. We met Wayne as he was cleaning his pool on Sunday morning, preparing for a huge family crab feast that afternoon. After we explained our quest, he eagerly invited us inside for breakfast (even though we’d just eaten). While Wayne whipped up toast, bacon, eggs, and coffee, we chatted with Loretta in the back sunroom. She recounted her and Wayne’s childhoods in Delaware and told of her unique job experiences while conducting weddings as clerk of the peace, such as the wedding that included a dressed-up horse as best man.

As Wayne entered with breakfast, Loretta scooted back to the kitchen to continue preparations for the get-together. Behind the house a crop duster swooped back and forth across a sea of soybeans. As he closed the windows, Wayne told us that he had once worked for the 70-year-old pilot; the farmer of the dusted soybeans was dating his daughter Brenda. This was obviously a tight-knit community. After breakfast, we took our leave to trek out into the field, where the exact geographic center lay. Past the soybeans stood an expanse of wheat stubble, where roads and house plots had been staked. A sign on the road announced the coming of a subdivision bringing hundreds of new houses–this geographic center is one that will certainly look very different a year from now.

Returning to the Wootens’, we were invited to stay for the crab feast. Before the sun had set, we’d taken a farm tour of most of central Delaware with Brenda and her farmer boyfriend Stanley, learned to eat crabs, met and chatted with most of the Wooten clan, and consumed enough home cooking to fuel us to the next state. And all that wasn’t enough to prove that traveling by bicycle brings people together, both Loretta and Brenda offered us a place to stay that night. (Since Loretta had already made up a bed, we ended up sleeping at the same house that we’d pedaled up to twelve hours before.)

New Jersey

Riding a ferry across Delaware Bay to Cape May, we weren’t sure what to expect of New Jersey. A mental picture emerged: a stocky, faintly Mafia-esque man, surrounded by dense urbanization, being brusquely unhelpful to us and our plight. But just as New York state is so much more than stock brokers, advertising firms, and Manhattan, New Jersey was so much more than mobsters, chemical plants, and Newark. We spent a full day pedaling up the sunny, breezy, South Jersey shore from Cape May to Atlantic City. The atmosphere was surprisingly delightful: old-fashioned boardwalks, amusement parks whose fanciest thrills were rickety wooden roller coasters and Ferris wheels, and little towns that felt more like beach house communities than beach resort developments.

We spent that night in the spectacular waterfront home of Tony and Isabel Pullella in Brigantine. Tony and Isabel were second generation Americans (his parents immigrated from Italy, hers from Scotland), and they now run a highly successful restaurant that Tony had started. Their family’s story made me proud of America’s historic reputation as a welcoming melting pot and a land of opportunity. Upon arrival, we enjoyed cold drinks poolside with their daughter Christina, while Atlantic City’s lights glimmered across the sea. Christina’s love of surfing had led her to Hawaii for college, but after graduation she had decided to ride her bicycle across the country. After finishing her trip, she joined the Warm Showers List, an online organization of people dedicated to providing hospitality to touring cyclists, and it was through this organization that we met the Pullellas.

Because of New Jersey’s dog leg shape, the geographic center comes close to falling outside of the state; instead, the center lies just inside the border from Pennsylvania in Trenton. Our ride from the Atlantic shore to Trenton took us through the Pine Barrens. This 1.1 million acre swath of woodlands in southern and central New Jersey dealt a heavy blow to our concept of the state as an endless expanse of concrete, buildings, and people. The sandy, acidic and nutrient-poor soil here had made the land unattractive to agricultural settlers of centuries past—hence the term “barrens”. Industries of extraction made brief forays into the area: bog ore mined here produced much of the iron for the revolutionary war, while loggers felled the extensive forests of pine, oak, and cedar to the point of exhaustion by the 1860’s. Since then, the woods have regrown, and the few people who have chosen to inhabit them (“Pineys”) have been left largely to themselves. We pedaled mile after mile through the woods, crossing languid creeks stained to the color of tea by tannins from the trees, without seeing a soul. As we emerged from the woods, we discovered that the acidic soil was suitable for at least one comparably tart crop: cranberries. The earthen dikes partitioned the land into boggy polygons, with little pump houses scattered here and there, ready to flood the fields come harvest time.

Entering Trenton, we were anxious to discover where the center lay. We had been warned about Trenton’s rough reputation by our friend Mike, who lives in Princeton and teaches high school English in Trenton. Mike has traveled extensively in Israel and Palestine, so if he warns us that a place is dicey, we listen. With GPS in hand, we homed in on the exact spot. From the street, a small paved lane led under a wrought-iron arch supported by square pillars bearing the initials “I.A.S.C.” and past a small cottage. The landscaping surrounding the cottage as overgrown, but among the chaotic foliage stood a small statue. A plaque at the base deciphered the acronym: The Italian-American Sportsmen’s Club, founded 1921. We proceeded up the lane.

Around a corner, we found a large windowless, concrete building with a parking lot out front. A smattering of cars heightened our hopes of learning what this club was all about. To the side of the building was an tree-shaded area with picnic tables underneath; beyond stood a pool surrounded by chain-link fencing. A stocky man emerged from the building, newspaper in hand and a cigar clenched in his teeth. He plopped down on a chair by the door; we walked over and attempted to spark a conversation. Here’s a good summary of our interactions: 1) We ask a friendly question 2) He gives a curt, declarative answer, never looking up from his paper 3) Awkward silence 4) Repeat. Here in the flesh was my mental image of the Jersey man.

One thing we did learn for certain during our “conversation”: whenever we asked about the I.A.S.C., we were reminded, “It’s a private club.” When I assured him that I had no desire to join or go inside the building (a fitness facility), he did concede that they went hunting and fishing together. When we told him that the geographic center of New Jersey was on the club’s grounds, he simply asked, “Are you sure it’s not next door?” I guess that was a hint. We did get a semi-animated reaction when we told him that we’d spent the day cycling through the Pine Barrens. “That’s where Jimmy Hoffa is buried,” he chuckled with a smirk that seemed more knowing than amused. I began to wonder if ducks and deer were all that these men pointed guns at. We thanked him for his time. He grunted. We went over to the picnic tables for a minute to snap our center photo. When we returned, he had gone inside. We decided to push on before we gave anyone else here a reason to be annoyed with us.

Our reception that night in Princeton by Mike and his wife Deanna (both Missouri natives) was markedly warmer, and we thoroughly enjoyed a few rest days full of friends and good conversation in that quintessential Ivy League town.

As you all know, our journey’s goal is to visit the geographic center of every state on our bicycle. So far, we have been to twenty of fifty states, but unfortunately, we have been lax in writing up our experiences on our website. (We have been faithful in keeping notes in our physical journal, so our aspirations of writing a book after we’re done is still a possibility.)

But in the meantime, before we share the details of our trek to the center of Hawaii (a truly unique and remote locale), we decided to post a summary of what we’ve found at the centers of the states we’ve been to thus far. So without further delay…

Oklahoma

The center of Oklahoma, despite being in the heart of the state’s largest city, is in an open field that (save for the self-storage building to the north) looks as though it might have never been touched by the hand of man. A riot of wildflowers were in evidence among the prairie tallgrasses when we visited in June, while a lone western red cedar grew a few yards away. To the south, a ribbon of dark green trees signaled the presence of a trickling creek (this creek also served as a boundary between the field where the center lies and the neighborhood to the south.) Oklahoma also had the distinction of having been the only geographic center to date that was visibly on the market. Act now–you can be the steward of a lovely piece of the prairie at the heart of Oklahoma!

Arkansas

The center of Arkansas lies on Mount Pulaski to the north of the town of Maumelle, not far from the place where Palarm Creek flows into the mighty Arkansas. The property has been in the Prater family for several generations, and the current steward (Barry) and his sons both grew up playing among these hills, while his mother ran the town’s general store for decades. Barry was at home when we showed up to hunt down the center; he gave us full freedom to traipse about on his hillside, then treated us to cold drinks on the patio while we chatted for hours. After his wife and son returned home for the evening, they took us out for pizza at a local piehouse, then put us up for the night in their cozy RV out back. A hearty welcome by the stewards of the heart of Arkansas!

Missouri

The center of Missouri took us to the tiny town of Eldon, then down a gravel road (Frank Street) to the home at 123 Frank Street, which was owned by David and Maryann Frank. David was on the tractor when we arrived at his lovely farmhouse with GPS in hand, tracking down the center like a bloodhound. Once we explained our quest to David, he enthusiastically corralled his family to escort us on our hunt for the center. We hopped into the back of the truck and headed down the hill with David, his wife, his son, and his granddaughter. Parking near the farm’s long turkey coups, we walked past a barn filled with composting turkey manure, around a blackberry bramble, and into a hay field that the Franks were soon to cut. There, at the edge of the hayfield, we honed in on the center; David proudly produced a hammer and flagged pole to drive into the spot, marking the location. We all posed together at the center, then headed back to the farmhouse to chat. This farm has been in the Frank family for decades, and four generations of Franks still live on the land. David’s mother came over for a visit that evening, allowing us to meet all four living generations of Franks. Maryann graciously brought us warm quesadillas and cold drinks at dinner, and we were allowed to pitch our tent on the lush lawn overnight after enjoying a warm shower in David & Maryann’s home. Though some of our travels in Missouri (not the most bike-friendly in the union) were trying, our visit to the center and the Frank family was able to redeem the state’s reputation from innumerable bad drivers.

Illinois

Time to confirm some stereotypes here: the center of Illinois was in the middle of a field, a mile from the nearest road. The land was flat, the soil was black and rich, and the crop was corn. But we had to walk through a half mile of soybeans (carefully not trampling them!) to get to the center. Flat land, black soil, corn and soybean fields: that’s a pretty good summary of central Illinois. But the center of Illinois was unique in one respect–the town it was in (Chester) was the only one so far who was self-aware of its geographic centrality. A painted wooden sign beneath the grain elevator proclaimed: “Welcome to Chester, the geographic center of Illinois!” Walking the one-block, one-side-of-the-street Main Street, we pieced together the story.

We walked past the burned-out and not rebuilt general store (we’d learned of this tragedy from a crestfallen girl in a neighboring town: “We lost our only Coke machine! But it always did give you Mellow Yellow, no matter what button you pushed”) Next door, the Postmaster in the Post Office told us the story of a young man, a university student in some kind of travel and tourism degree, who’d come to town one day with the news: “Chester is the geographic center of Illinois!” His vision was to revive the dwindling farm town by building tourist-attracting industry centered around, well The Center. The young man was apparently an enthusiastic and persuasive salesman; press coverage had ranged from local newsletters to Chicago papers to national morning news programs. Elaborate ideas and plans were drawn up, including a tower hundreds of feet tall stabbing into the wide open Illinois skies, Cleopatra’s Needle among a sea of corn. A tiny triangular park was built across from the Main Street strip, with a marker indicating the town’s geographic uniqueness, but the tower, nor the tourism boom, ever materialized. Past the diner (closed), we entered the bank to chat, but were instead handed a scrapbook of press coverage about the town’s temporary fame. Since then, the town has settled quite comfortably back into its ways as a rural farm community, holding a mixture of pride and jadedness about the Geographic Center issue.

Wisconsin

The center of Wisconsin was an unusually communal event, since we had hooked up with the Bike Northwoods Tour for a few days across Wisconsin. The two days before arriving at the center we spent the day cycling with several hundred fellow bicycle touring enthusiasts, riding on low-traffic backroads on perfectly planned routes. We met and befriended cyclists from all over the country and got to experience a much more social way of touring. The nights were spent camping at area schools, with a much-welcomed shower awaiting inside in the locker rooms. On the third night, the tour was scheduled to stay in the tiny town of Auburndale, once again at the high school. Serendipitously, the geographic center of Wisconsin was actually next to the football field at Auburndale High, so that night after dinner, Laura and I stood up before the group, explained our quest to everyone, and welcomed all to come out and join us for our picture at the geographic center. I’m not sure how many were with us in the picture, but I’m pretty sure that we’ll not be joined by that many fellow touring cyclists at any other center! Overall, Wisconsin was a wonderful state, the first to strongly tempt us to move there after our journey is completed (and we didn’t even visit reputedly marvelous Madison!)

Michigan

Our choice to pedal over the Upper Peninsula (and spend our first anniversary there in a B & B on the shores of Lake Michigan) meant that we were in Michigan for a long time. The discovery of the center followed suit, occupying nearly a whole day of bushwhacking through the wilds of Pere Marquette State Forest to reach it. We ditched our bike in some tall grass along near the dirt road that took us to within 1.6 miles of the center, then began following a path that lead in approximately the right direction. We crossed through a field of tall grass, passed a small pond, then entered the forest proper. After a short while, the path began leading in a direction far from the center, so we opted to begin bushwhacking. Some of the forest was older growth, with knee-high ferns on the forest floor to wade through. At other times, the woods were young, with trees the size of your wrist at close intervals, making our progress slow and tedious. A few boggy areas were encountered then skirted, and a few times we crossed paths in the woods, unsure of where they went and whether they could ease our advancement.

Unexpectedly, we came across a house in the apparent middle of nowhere, and decided to knock. A young teenage girl answered the door; her parents weren’t around, and she was visibly nervous, so we thanked her and moved on. We followed the dirt road that her house was on for a while, but this too eventually diverged from our intended direction. Back in the woods, we finally arrived at the center, out of water and snacks. We set up our tripod among the ferns, under the dappled light filtering through the tall hardwoods, and snapped our center photo. It had been an exhausting walk, and we were worried about our lack of water and food for the long trip back. However, we soon came across a path and decided to see if it could speed our return. Although we encountered many intersecting paths, we always chose the one whose direction most closely matched the direction back to the bike, and sure enough, they led us all the way back out of the woods, past the pond, and to our waiting bicycle. In all, the return trip took a third the time the slog out had taken! But we were happy to be back at our bike, having successfully explored our way to our sixth state center.

Indiana

Entering Indiana from the north, we passed through the Amish country of Elkhart county. Here we encountered the Miller family, who welcomed us into their home for one of the most enjoyable and eye-opening evenings of our trip. Although there are innumerable “Amish” tourist draws in this area, we found that spending the night with an Amish family connected us with and helped us to understand this unique group far more than any “Amish Opry” theme park or “Amish furniture” store ever could.

Indiana, like Oklahoma, has placed its capital city at the very heart of the state. Although the majority of our experience in Indiana was rural farm country, the center fell in the suburbs of northwest Indianapolis. On the morning we set out for the center, our plan was to ride the seventy-plus miles to the center then pray that the family there would be hospitable to us, since we would likely be too knackered from the long day’s ride to pedal around a big city in search of accommodation. That day the wind blew strongly against us, and we struggled mightily to make our destination. Upon entering the community that held the center, we became nervous. To be frank, we have found that the wealthier a person is, the less likely they are to be trusting of and hospitable to strangers on a bicycle. When we passed a Bentley dealership less than a mile from the center, we really started wondering what manner of reception we would receive. As we pedaled into the neighborhood containing the center, with its massive, ostentatious homes, I began formulating a “Plan B” for accommodation for the night.

GPS in hand, we approached the estate that contained the center. Outside, we met a man who was practicing his putting on the back lawn. His reception was disinterested at best. We attempted to chat with him, but to little avail, so we asked permission to take our center picture. He declined our offer to be in the photo, but called out his teenage daughter to join us. His wife also came out, and after the photo, the ladies of the house were warm and eager conversationalists. After half an hour of chatting, I began getting nervous about the lowering sun, so we prepared to set off. However, just before we mounted our bike, the mother ran over and invited us to stay on their lawn overnight and enjoy a warm shower inside. We at first hesitated, sensing that perhaps the husband was not as enthusiastic to host us. Yet she insisted, telling us that our description of the way that our journey allows us to rely more fully on God to provide for our daily needs had touched her.

After setting up camp out back and showering, we got to chat a little more with mother and daughter over fresh berries and cream. In the end, we came to see this family as representing both the best and the worst of the “American Dream”. The fact that an African-American man from a family of twelve has become a managing partner in one of Indianapolis’s largest accounting firms seems to indicate that advancement and success is available to anyone with talent and a strong work ethic. However, we felt saddened while staying with this family that the dark side of the “American Dream” was in full effect as well: an “enough is never enough” lack of contentment. Despite a large and luxurious home with empty-nest status fast-approaching, this family was building an even larger home farther from the city center. This paradox gave us much food for thought as we pedaled east towards Ohio.

Ohio

Just off Centerburg Road, in the town of Centerburg (someone seems to have figured it out!) lies the geographic center of Ohio. It was in a small wheat field adjacent to a dilapidated old church. Though still used for worship, the building’s days were numbered and no effort was apparent to slow its demise. Surrounding the church were weathered tombstones dating back into the mid-1800’s. The church’s restroom was a porta-potty out back, which we utilized just before a giant truck showed up to empty its contents. Back at the field, we were puzzled that the wheat had not been harvested, but simply cut and then left to rot. I gleaned a few grains from the downed heads and enjoyed a taste of Ohio, then we walked next door to meet the nearest resident.

Here we met Roger Gorsuch, a nice man with a Kermit-ish voice whose mean dogs with angry barks nearly kept us from meeting him. He was excited about our journey, and grabbed cold water bottles then hopped on his own bike (long-neglected, by the looks) to ride back to the center with us for a photo. While chatting, we learned that the owner of the field lived across the street, an elderly woman named Nina Overturf. We then headed over to Nina’s house to try and meet her.

Although we’ve mailed home our notebooks home and cannot reproduce the dialogue we jotted down, here’s what we can recall. Nina and her husband had owned and farmed all the land around her house (including the center) for decades, but as time went by they had farmed less and less while selling off most of the old plot piece by piece. Her husband had died some years ago, and her relationships with her living children were sour. Our strongest impression was that of a bitter and lonely old woman, yet even during our visit, she never turned the TV off and was constantly distracted by it. We left her home and returned to Roger’s place, where he had offered us his park-like side lot to camp on for the evening. As luck would have it, we set up that night under a Buckeye tree, with the small brown nuts surrounding our tent. Roger even brought us hot coffee in the morning!

Pennsylvania

Pennsylvania is a lovely state to tour…by motorcycle. But crossing it east-west on a bicycle was brutal. When we finally arrived in State College, where the center is located, we were ready for a rest. Fortunately on the sidewalk in front of the public library, we ran into Brian Dempsey and Lynda Bullard, a couple who crossed a busy street to ask us about our bike. They invited us to stay with them for the night in their apartment nearby. Our conversations with Brian & Lynda that night were delightful and got even better when we met their friends at a local restaurant.

The next day, we took a rest from riding and wandered around State College and the Penn State campus, enjoying lunch at a local Thai restaurant. (We don’t often get the chance to eat Thai in rural America.) The following morning, Laura and I had planned to resume biking and visit the center. However, after riding his bicycle to work at the university, Brian called to tell us it was pouring and that we were welcome to stay another day. After watching the rain fail to relent for several hours, we appreciatively agreed. Lynda then offered to give us a ride to the center in her car. After a short deliberation, including consulting a local bicycling map (STEEP hills between us and the center!) and the weather (still pouring), we agreed.

The ride to the center was lovely, with part of the route paralleling a babbling stream. However, the center was anticlimactic. Despite being a very short distance from the grounds of Rockview State Penitentiary (the one that housed death row inmates and the death chamber), the actual center was on a deforested right-of-way beneath a set of power lines on top of a hill. The fence to the land was distinctively unwelcoming (something about “no trespassing” and “violators will be prosecuted”), and Laura was uneasy. Nevertheless, we made the quick jaunt to the center and snapped our picture, Lynda waiting in the getaway vehicle. True to Pennsylvania form, attaining the center was testing—of our endurance to get there, our jackets by the rain, and our convictions by taking a car shortcut then “trespassing”. But the next day, as we rode off in glorious sunshine, we were glad that we’d pushed on and left no center unexplored.

Washington, D.C.

Though not a state, we decided to visit the geographic center of D.C. because we were there already and it was more or less on our way out of the city. Not far from NPR’s national headquarters (”We love you, All Things Considered!”) the center was in a run down neighborhood that was quickly being swallowed up by high-rise condominiums. The exact center stood in a small parking lot across the street from a small El Salvadorian lunch spot, a haircut shop (”World’s best haircuts” written with a picture of an afro-globe), and urban dollar store, and an auto repair garage. We tried out the Puerto Rican place, sharing it with the construction workers from the rising buildings. The food was decent, the prices were great, and we had fun eating at a place borne not of high culinary aspirations, but simply of a local demand (hungry construction workers) and a supply (lightning fast El Salvadorian cooks).

That’s all for tonight: more states’ stories coming soon!